east side of the Hall, with its big plain traceried window
enlivened with a few heraldic shields of stained glass. While I was
looking out to-day there came a flying burst of sun, and the little
corner became a sudden feast of delicate colour; the fresh green of
the grass, the foliage of the lime-trees, their brown wrinkled
stems, the pale moss on the walls, the bright points of colour in
the emblazonries of the window, made a sudden delicate harmony of
tints. I had seen the place a hundred times before without ever
guessing what a perfect picture it made.

What a strange power the perception of beauty is! It seems to ebb
and flow like some secret tide, independent alike of health or
disease, of joy or sorrow. There are times in our lives when we
seem to go singing on our way, and when the beauty of the world
sits itself like a quiet harmony to the song we uplift. Then again
come seasons when all is well with us, when we are prosperous and
contented, interested in life and all its concerns, when no
perception of beauty comes near us; when we are tranquil and
content, and take no heed of the delicate visions of the day; when
music has no inner voice, and poetry seems a mere cheerful jingling
of ordered phrases. Then again we have a time of gloom and
dreariness; work has no interest, pleasure no savour; we go about
our business and our delight alike in a leaden mood of dulness; and
yet again, when we are surrounded with care and trouble, perhaps in
pain or weakness of body, there flashes into the darkened life an
exquisite perception of things beautiful and rare; the vision of a
spring copse with all its tapestry of flowers, bright points of
radiant colour, fills us with a strange yearning, a delightful
pain; in such a mood a few chords of music, the haunting melody of
some familiar line of verse, the song of a bird at dawn, the light